Years of Laughter
by HarmonyofWords
Summary: When they were born the world was scared, but they weren't afraid. As people later found out, few things frightened the Weasley twins - not as long as they had each other.


I am not JK Rowling - I'm just playing around with the magic that she created.

* * *

When they were born, the world was afraid. It was quiet - a stormy, waiting sort of quiet that come with uncertainty and fear. People whispered in the streets and in the alleys, in the forgotten corners of pubs and shops. They were scared to be loud, and worried about the punishment for stating their mind. The newspapers murmured about the disappearance of so-and-so witch or so-and-so family. It didn't scream headlines anymore - it, too, was afraid to speak.

But they were not. No - it is doubtful these two were ever afraid to speak. From the second they were born, they squalled at the cold air and the noise and the lights. Only when they rested in their mothers' and father's arms did the quiet down. But before then, long before then, the people around them murmured and whispered and wondered in fear.

Their first moments were spent in the heart of a secret and well-guarded building. Magic hummed in the air as several trained healers worked with a methodic ease at bringing new lives to the word. In all of the chaos of the world, this was one thing that never changed. Social unrest would not stop people from having children - or at least, it would not stop them from how they had children. And so they greeted the new lives as they always did: smiling, and with ease.

The ease was not replicated in the waiting room, where a nervous man paced up and down and ran his hand through his thick red hair. He knew he shouldn't have to be worried about this, and should be more worried about what his brothers-in-laws were doing to keep his existing three sons occupied. After all, as one of his brother-in-law pointed out to him before he flooed to the hospital, "It's your fourth one, Arthur. Should be easy as leviating, yeah?"

But his first three hadn't been three weeks early. His first three had been different - they were all different. What if _this_ _time_ , something went wrong? Or even if it didn't, what kind of a world was it, to raise a child. What kind of father could he be to his three young sons and this new, this precious baby?

Similar trains of thought echoed in the mind of a red-haired mother, somewhere in that same building. The thoughts that managed to pierce through the haze of pain and flurry of giving birth were filled with _what if_ s and worries. None of her babies had been early before, let alone three weeks early. And this baby had felt so different from the others, so different from her last, quiet little boy or from her restless second child or even the newness of her first. This one was constant. Constantly moving, constantly reminding her about him (for she was certain it was a him), and he felt _more._ There were worries, whispers, that there was something wrong.

And then there were whisperings, little doubts that had nagged her for months, about money and jobs and keeping six, instead of five, little mouths fed. Three boys - now four - would be a lot of mouths to feed, and while she could stretch food a long ways, she had already been stretching it a bit before the pregnancy. How would she be able to feed - but then another wave of pain and encouragements from the healers interrupted that thought.

Miles away, in a ramshackle cottage five people called home, two young men were smiling for their nephews, even as worry smoldered underneath. Worry for their sister and her new child, yes, but also worry for the world. Worry about a friend who might be battling for her life at that very moment. Worry for the young students from their old school who might soon be joining them in fighting for the world. Worry for their safety and the safety of their family. Even they, with all of their spirit and their joking, were afraid.

In that same cottage, a young boy was worried. At seven years old, he had eyes and he could see. He saw the way that Mum and Dad whispered over breakfast and late at night, and how they would stop when he came into the room. He saw them hide the paper, stuffing it in the cupboards or banishing it quickly when he tried to look at the pictures. He saw his father's worried face when he had left to go to the hospital - saw the seriousness behind his "Look after your brothers, Bill." At seven years old, he knew there were things going on in the world - important things. Things he would have to protect his new baby sibling from.

At the same time, in a castle filled with busy people, an old wizard was listening to the glimmering, silver stallion. "Gid and I won't make Order meeting. The baby's coming." The man was not concerned about the brothers' absence - this was a routine, if not usually uneventful, weekly check-in, and while they would be missed, the brothers were not necessary to the operation. No, the thought that caused him to sigh and the delighted smile to vanish from his face was _What a time to raise a child_. Certainly, he thought he knew plenty about raising children in these dark times - being surrounded by children would do that to any man - but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. Yes, this birth brought graveness to even the most optimistic of men.

But back in the heart of the secret old building, the healers were still calm and collected. Smiling and offering encouragement because they knew what they were doing. Still, there was a moment of slight surprise, when they realized not only was the baby early, it was a they. They were twins.

An in a few short hours the pacing man was in a room with his wife and they were each holding a bundle, because the birth had gone perfectly. They were three weeks early, but they were healthy. They were a surprise, but they were a good surprise. And while the parents gave thanks for that, they were also astonished, and delighted at the second surprise.

"Twins, Arthur," the wife breathed. "Oh, Arthur, they're twins." And she wasn't worried about stretching food for two more mouths, but could only think about the small bundles in their arms and how they were _hers._ And the man, too, wasn't worried about raising his children in those dark days, or how much harder two would be than one. All he could think of was that they were there, in his arms, and they were perfect.

Later, the man passed one of the bundles down to his oldest son. The brother-in-laws cooed over the other. And all three of them - brother and uncles - weren't worried, either. They smiled when they saw the babies, but there was a slight determination in them. There were promises in those smiles.

"I'll fight for you," one of the uncles whispered to the louder bundle that he held in his arms. "I'll make sure you don't have to fight," the other murmured. These were the reasons that they fought - for their futures. For their nephews, their reincarnations. So that the second pair of red-headed twins would grow up with parents, and would grow up without a constant fear. At the same time, the seven-year old looked down at the quiet baby he held. "I'll protect you," he whispered. "I'll always be there for you."

And when the babies were laid down next to each other, one barely tilted his head, and the other barely moved his, so that they were just barely touching each other. And they were quiet, and content.

When they were born the world was scared, but they weren't afraid. As people later found out, few things frightened the Weasley twins - not as long as they had each other.


End file.
